Sense of reality
by Madam Mimm
Summary: In desperate need of cash, Bernard signs Black Books up to be the focus of a new Reality TV show. Unfortunately, being in the public eye is much harder than Bernard, Manny or Fran could ever have imagined. T for language
1. Chapter 1

Bernard scraped a fragment of congealed sleep goo from the corner of his eye, before gazing blearily at the grimy desk in front of him, eventually dragging his eyes up the soft curvature of the wine glass that sat in front of him. Empty. But... clean. Manny had clearly been here.

"Did I fall asleep again?" He managed to slur, tipping his head back slightly without tearing his eyes off of the glass, hoping there was someone in the vicinity to hear him.

"Yes." Manny's irritated grumble came through from the kitchen, closely followed by the hairy berk himself. "You should see a doctor about it, Bernard, it's not healthy."

"No, no. No. No doctors with their lies, their high-tech foolery." He ran a hand through the shaggy mess of hair atop his head, and blinked slightly as the world moved the opposite way to him. "I have no time to be dealing with some under-funded, milk-sap student who still needs help with the big words in his text books." He spat slightly, but maintained an air of determination under Manny's disappointed gaze.

"Bernard, you're clearly not well. I'm worried..."

"Don't worry, I don't need it. And I wish you'd stop moping around my shop, acting like my mother. It's disconcerting." Manny said nothing, but continued bustling around the shop, being despicably able at such an intolerable hour of the morning. That was a point...

"Manny, what time is it?"

"It's a quarter to three in the afternoon."

"Ah. Well then, that explains it. My blood alcohol level must be out of balance." Bernard stumbled to his feet, and mashed at the buttons on the till in random combinations, hoping one of them would open it.

"Yes, I've been meaning to talk to you about that." Manny raised an eyebrow in his direction. "Do you not think your ratio of blood to alcohol needs a little levelling? As in, you really need more blood than alcohol in your veins?"

"Oh, see, this is what I'm talking about." Bernard scowled at him, before screwing up his face and adopting a high pitched, wavering voice. "Bernard, you shouldn't drink so much. Bernard, smoking gives you cancer. Bernard, you need to put on trousers before you go into the shop." He dropped the impression, and resumed his practiced scowl. The till drawer sprang open and Bernard looked inside with bleary silence.

"Manny... isn't there usually money in this thing?"

Manny stood at Bernard's shoulder and observed that, indeed, the till was empty. Except for one second class stamp, a broken cigarette lighter and a stack of "I.O.U" notes, half in Bernard's wobbly scrawl and half in Fran's illegible, looping hand.

"Ah."

"Ah."

There was a long silence.

"Manny..." Bernard slowly stood up straight, blinking at his inept assistant. "Is it my imagination, or did I not tell you to do the accounts a few days ago?"

"Uh, it was the day before yesterday." Manny agreed, oblivious to the underlying tone of menace in Bernard's despairing voice.

"I see. And did you realise we were a little... strapped... in the financial department?"

"Uh... yes, actually, I remember thinking it was a bit bad."

"I see." Bernard turned to fully face Manny, casually picking up a hardback from the desk. "And why, may I ask, did you not think to TELL ME?!" Bernard yelled, bringing the book down on Manny's back, glaring as the bearded idiot stumbled away from him.

"You were unconscious, that's why." Manny straightened up, shooting him a hurt look. "What are we going to do, Bernard? We can't keep the shop open if trade carries on like this."

"Alright, alright." Bernard rubbed his forehead, sitting down again and leaning on the desk. "I'll think of something. I..."

At that moment (and in the kind of convenient manner Bernard often observed occurring at episodes throughout his life), a tall yet portly man with hair a similar brown to his leather shoes, crisp blue jeans, a plain white shirt and a black blazer entered the shop, looking around in admiration.

"Hey man, this is really something." His broad, foppish accent told Bernard all he needed to know.

"Manny, serve the ponce will you?" He sneered. He was too hung-over to deal with this stuff. "I'm going to make myself some breakfast." And with a surly rattle of curtain hooks, Bernard had disappeared to the kitchen. Manny shot a nervy smile at the man, before clearing his throat and beginning the sales pitch.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm just admiring this shop." The man shot him a self-assured smile, before gesturing at the room around him. "It's perfect."

Manny waited for the punch line, but as he stood there in awkward silence, there didn't seem to be one. Perfect? A grotty hole, perhaps, but perfect?

"I'm Eric Meyers, by the way." The man shot Manny another smile. "I'm in TV, and this shop is just perfect for something I'm working on."

"Oh?" Manny smiled politely, wondering what hellish drivel would be set in a hovel like Black Books.

"Yes... in fact..." Eric began to look Manny up and down, shrewd calculation in his eyes. "We're looking for people to take part, if you're interested. It'll be a reality TV show called "Working hours", we install some hidden cameras in a shop, give the staff a diary camera, then broadcast the footage live along with constant commentary and interviews on it."

"Uhh... wow." Manny hazarded, repressing the instinct to cringe.

"You wouldn't be interested in taking part, would you?" Eric gave a sly smile, and, worryingly, his predatory grin didn't waver when Manny shook his head, chuckling to himself.

"Oh, no no no. No, I don't think the owner would be too impressed. He... well, he likes his privacy; he's a bit of a grouch."

"Shame." Eric continued to smile, slowly turning as if to leave. "All contestants get paid two and a half thousand pounds just for signing up, and if the viewers vote your shop as the most interesting work place, you can win anywhere up to half a million. But..." He gave a smooth, nonchalant shrug. "If you're not interested..."

Manny's eyes were wide. He bit his lip, and slowly collected his thoughts.

"Umm... could you just... wait there for a moment, please?" He gave a nervous smile, before almost tripping over his own sandals as he ran into the kitchen, yelling for Bernard.

"So... let me get this straight." Bernard grumbled as he took a drag from the cigarette in his left hand, and drummed his fingers on the wine glass in his right. He watched Mr Meyers carefully as the sat around the coffee table, Manny making tea in the background. "You... want to put us... on TV."

"Yes." The TV executive flashed another charming smile.

"And we don't have to do anything other than what we normally do."

"Not at all. In fact, it would be worse if you did."

"And... and we get paid, do we? For partaking in this... this folderol?"

"Of course." Eric smiled another predatory grin, reclining in his chair. "It's entirely up to you."

"Well..." Bernard glanced around the shop, a little unsure. "People really want to see what happens in a place like this?"

"Oh yes, it'll make compelling viewing. Especially if we highlight how you're struggling against competition." He gestured in the direction of Goliath Books, with a conspiratorial glance. "People love the story of an underdog."

"I see. And just how many cameras are we talking?"

"Well... I'd say four or five in the main shop, just to get some different angles, maybe two in here, and maybe a few upstairs..."

"Oh no." Bernard shook his head, eager to find fault with this idea. "No. No cameras upstairs, it's an invasion of privacy. I refuse. I absolutely-"

"Hey, no problem." Eric held his hands up in a gesture of openness. "You don't want cameras upstairs, we don't put cameras upstairs. It's all on your terms."

"Well..." Bernard mumbled, caught off guard by the interruption. "Well then. Yes. Well. I... I shall have to think about this, you understand. I..."

Bernard was cut off as the door to the shop slammed, and Fran's voice drifted through into the kitchen.

"Bernard? Manny? Come on, it's pub time!" Fran poked her head through the curtains, and her words were lost as she saw Eric, who stood as she entered. She flustered for a moment, before smiling sweetly and fluttering her eyelashes.

"Eric, this is Fran. She doesn't work here but we can't get rid of her." Bernard drawled, with a preoccupied wave of his cigarette. "Fran, this is Eric Meyers, he wants to put us on some reality TV show shite, but we'll get paid for doing it."

"Fran, hello." Eric smiled, extending his hand. "I hope we'll be seeing you on our cameras. I know our viewers will find your beauty intoxicating." Fran gave a sort of strangled laugh which sounded reminiscent of a sheep going through a blender, her eyes fixed on his, and her hand staying awkwardly locked in the handshake.

"I-I-I-it's a pleasure to meet you. I hope we'll meet again sometime soon. Really soon. Not that... you know..." She gave the same strangled laugh, making Bernard and Manny both flinch. Eric's phone rang, and he took it from his pocket, flashing his charming smile around the room again. "Excuse me, will you, I have to take this." Fran gave a broad smile, watching him leave, before turning on Bernard.

"Bernard, you have to agree to this TV thing."  
"What?" He gave her a crazed look, before taking another puff on his cigarette. "Are you nuts? He wants to film us, twenty-four seven. Do you have any idea how dull it'd be?"

"We do need the money." Manny chimed in, to agitated nods from Fran.

"Yes, but if I was going to violate my own privacy for the amusement of total strangers just so I could fund my questionable habits, there would be far easier ways of going about it."

"Oh Bernard, no one wants you to prostitute yourself." Fran sighed, kneeling down beside his chair. "It's really very simple..." and so saying she grabbed his ear with one hand, pinching him in the waist with the other.

"Aaaauuughhaaa...." Bernard struggled against her, but the woman had a surprisingly fierce grip.

"If you mess up my chance of seeing him again, I'll hurt you in so many ways you can't imagine!"

"Alright, alright!" Bernard managed to struggle free, standing up and glaring at her as if she were a mad woman. "Mother of god, no wonder your ex-boyfriends run when they see you coming..." He shot one more parting glare and went back into the shop, just in time to see Eric hanging up his phone.

"Bernard!" He smiled. "Look, if you want to think about it, I can come back."

"No need." Bernard cleared his throat, rubbing his ear delicately. "I've thought about it... and it looks like we're in agreement."

"Oh, really? That's great!" Eric smiled again, reaching into his blazer pocket. "It just so happens that I have the contracts right here, if you want to sign."

"Right... ok..." Bernard found a pen amidst the piles of paper on his desk, and began to scribble his name where Eric pointed. He smiled with relief when Eric told him the £2,500 would be arriving tomorrow, along with the cameras and a crew to install them. It was done. Sorted. They stayed for the next three months and then, if enough people call in, they could win even more money. Simple. How could it possibly go wrong?


	2. Chapter 2

Manny pushed the broom around the shop floor, the coil of the phone following him over his route, with the receiver held between his shoulder and his ear.

"Well, yeah." He mumbled into the phone, listening intently to the voice on the other end. "Yeah, it should be interesting... mm... the TV people are coming in today, trying to sort it all out." Manny made another couple of sweeps with the broom, before stopping entirely, and leaning on the handle. "Oh, I don't know about that..." he fidgeted awkwardly, tutting at what he heard. "He's gotten better. Like last night. He actually made it upstairs before collapsing..." Manny trailed off, as there was a knock on the door. "Ah... um... have to go. Yeah. Alright, bye." He grinned as he replaced the receiver and put the phone back in its original place on Bernard's desk. He leant the broom against the table and half jogged, half stumbled over to the door, opening it to reveal a petite blonde woman with her hair tied back in a tight ponytail, wearing a tracksuit and clutching a clipboard. A large crowd of people stood behind her, all in scruffy work clothes, and some with hi-visibility jackets.

"Black Books?" She smiled, looking a little out of breath.

"Uh, yes..." Manny looked at them, confused. The woman showed him an ID card clipped to her clipboard.

"Fiona Lesters. For "Working Hours"?"

"Oh, right!" Manny gave a relieved sigh, standing aside. "Uh, come in."

"Alright guys, get to it!" Fiona yelled at the crew behind her, who bustled into the shop and began busying themselves. "Alright... are you Mr..." she checked her keyboard, before looking at Manny again. "Mr Bernard Black?"

"No, no, I'm Manny. Bernard's... umm..." He glanced up at the ceiling, wondering how much noise the crew would make before Bernard emerged from his drunken slumber. "He's not available at the moment. But, uh, I'm sure I could pass any messages along." He smiled eagerly, and Fiona shook her head. "Manny... ah, Manny Bianco. You're listed here as shop help, is that right?"

"Shop... shop help?" Manny puffed himself up with pride, and tried to remain casual sounding. "Bernard... did he write that? About me?"

"Well, it was a multiple choice option." Fiona replied, offhand, still leafing through documents on her clipboard, while the work crew began setting up ladders, drilling and wiring. "Although he did also tick "other" and listed "man-servant", "houndish troll" and "bane of my Exeter"."

"I... Exeter?"

"I think that's what it says." Fiona scrutinised the writing. "It's very hard to read."

"Ah..." Manny sighed a little, before Fiona turned to another crew member who entered with a few shiny cardboard boxes. At this moment, Manny flinched as the curtains rattled aside, and Bernard cast a curious yet disdainful glare at the crew, who continued regardless of his arrival.

"Manny!" Bernard glared at Manny who smiled happily, something the Irishman found incredibly obnoxious at this heavily hung-over hour of the morning. "What is this? Who are these people?"

"Ah, Bernard, this is..." Manny was cut off as Fiona pushed past him, hand extended. "Fiona Lesters. I'm here to supervise the set-up of the cameras for "Working Hours". Bernard Black, I take it?"

"What? Yes. Hello-aaaooohh..." Bernard was caught off guard, and shook her hand, eyes suddenly widening in pain as she crushed several of his fingers.

"Now, before we get down to matters of protocol, there's one question to clear up." Fiona sniffed, before flicking back through her clipboard. "Under "extra help", you listed one Fran Katzenjammer, but didn't list a specific role."

"She brings the wine, she provides entertainment..." Bernard mumbled flippantly, watching the crew carefully. "Who cares? She's the shop's token hag."

"Bernard." Manny reprimanded, turning to Fiona. "She's our friend, she helps out here but she's not technically employed."

"I see..." Fiona took a pen from inside her jacket, and noted something on the clipboard. "We'll list her as "volunteer help". Do you know how we can reach her?"

"Don't worry, I'll get her for you." Bernard sniffed, looking into an empty cigarette packet. He balled it up, and threw it at a lumpy blanket on the sofa with considerable force. The lumpy blanket moved and emitted a sleepy grumble. "Get up!" Bernard crossed, and tore the blanket away, revealing a fully clothed, slowly stirring Fran still clutching an empty wine bottle. She blearily opened her eyes and stumbled to her feet, looking around.

"Whassgoinon? Bernard? Why am I in the shop and who are all these people?"

"You passed out drunk on the sofa again." Bernard spat with contempt, digging in his other pocket and taking out a new pack of cigarettes. He took one, and Fran wordlessly took another one, while Fiona began talking, unaware or uncaring of the contemptuous, confused glares from Fran and Bernard.

"Wonderful, since we're all here. There are going to be five hidden cameras in here, and three in the office through there." She motioned with her pen. "We're trying to be as unobtrusive as possible with filming, but we ask that you restrict your leaving the shop until it's totally necessary. Of course, with Bernard and Manny living here it shouldn't be an issue. We're going to provide you each with a handy-cam so you can record a video diary, and someone will be here every other day to pick up the tapes. Watch carefully, I'm going to show you how they work."

She took one of the glossy cardboard boxes, and began to open the box, removing a sleek looking silver video camera.

"You press this button here to open the monitor screen, and swivel it around like this so you can see what you're filming. This button records and this button stops it. Any questions?"

She looked up from the camera, to see three completely blank faces staring back at her.

"So..." Bernard puffed on his cigarette, exhaling slowly as he thought. "So that thing... makes video?"

Fiona, not caught off guard for a second, returned the camera to its box, and gave it to Manny, before handing one each to Fran and Bernard.

"Instructions are written in the booklet inside. Right guys, how are the cameras?" A rumble of approval came from the crew, as three men in jackets left the kitchen. The crew began filing out of the doors. "Brilliant. We have three other shops to set up, so we should be done by... one? Brilliant." She gave a curt smile, heading for the door herself. "There should be someone here in about an hour or so to get interviews with each of you. Here is the cheque for agreeing to take part." She took a cheque from her clipboard, and handed it to Bernard, before giving another curt smile.

"Brilliant meeting you."

And with that, she and the work crew were gone, leaving Bernard Manny and Fran in a cloud of smoke and confusion.

"Bernard..." Fran blinked, finally awake. "Am I still very drunk or was that confusing for you too?"

"Oh, most definitely." Bernard agreed, clearing his throat and crossing back to his desk, shoving the cheque in the till and fumbling through the drawers for a bottle of wine. "Of course, I tend to assume I've become so cynical, the idea of people existing outside of this shop is strange and ridiculous."

Bernard, Manny and Fran sat awkwardly around Bernard's desk, forcing smiles as a bespectacled, spotty teenager set up a complicated looking camera in front of them.

"And we're rolling." He croaked, from behind the threatening machinery. "Do you want to introduce yourselves?" The bewildered silence continued. "Alright, let's start with you, Mr Black. If you just want to say your name, your age, maybe a few facts about yourself?"

"I... really?"

"It'd be a good start."

"Alright. Fine. My name is Bernard Black, I'm thirty years old, I like wine, I smoke and I've been in charge of this hellhole for far too long. Is that enough?"  
"Yeah..." The camera guy grimaced, before adjusting the camera slightly. "I think we've got a pretty good idea of your character. Alright, uh... Manny next?"

"Oh.. um.. I'm Manny Bianco, I'm thirty two, and..."

"You're thirty two years old?" Bernard exclaimed, gazing at Manny with shocked horror, before shifting back in his seat. "Christ, it makes you even more of a simpering fool."

Manny bit his lip, looking around awkwardly.

"Carry on, Manny." The camera guy gave an uninterested sigh. "We'll edit that bit out."

"Oh... right... umm... Well, I used to be an accountant, but I've been working here for about a year and a half."

"`About`." Bernard muttered scornfully. "Nice to know you care."

"Bernard." Fran reprimanded, before patting Manny's hand soothingly, and turning to the camera guy. "I'm sorry about him; he's a bit irritable when he's hung over." Bernard glared darkly at her, but she ignored him.

"I was ignoring him. Right, do you want to go next, Fran?"

"Oh, ok, well..." Fran smoothed down the front of her blouse and sat up straight, smiling. "My name is Fran Katzenjammer, I'm... twenty nine." Bernard snorted, but his laugh was cut short as Fran hit him in the arm without removing her eyes from the camera. "Twenty nine." She repeated, slightly forcefully, "I used to own a shop called "Nifty Gifty" next door, but it closed down. I spend a lot of time helping out here because... well, I don't really know why. It's quite fun though, sometimes."

"Great, is that it?" Bernard snapped, shooting a bleary glare at the spotty faced teen.

"Yeah, that'll be fine." He was already packing away the camera. "Luckily, I won't have to edit it. Feel free to say more about yourself in your video diaries."

"Oh, well, thank you." Manny smiled, helping him to the door.

"Yeah, whatever." The teen sniffed back, lifting the camera with considerable ease. "See you." Manny shut the door behind the teen, before turning to see Bernard glaring at him angrily.

"Wonderful. You have a new friend. Now, you lying, aged man-child, where's my cure?"

Manny opened his mouth to protest, but trudged dutifully towards the kitchen.

"Manny, could you get me a cup of tea while you're in there?" Fran smiled sweetly, sitting down in the chair opposite Bernard's.

"Tea?" Bernard repeated, as if the word was nonsense. "You never drink tea. We do have wine, you know."

"I know, but I'm cutting back." Fran stuck her chin out proudly. "I'm not going to be seen on national TV as a hopeless drunk. Not me." She gave a wry smile. "One bottle, after five, and only every other day. Maybe two on Saturdays." She raised an eyebrow at Bernard who stared at her with something near horror.

"You're sick. You're ill. Oh god, don't vomit on my desk."

"I'm not ill, Bernard." Fran sighed, smiling at him with intolerable smugness. "It'll be good for me, and it'll make sure I save my dignity. Who knows, I may even keep it up."

"You never will." Bernard mocked, digging a cigarette out of his pocket. "Half a bottle a day? You won't survive the week, let alone the three months they're going to film us for."

"I will too." Fran sniffed, indignant. "Anyway, I don't know why you signed up to this. Getting the million pound prize relies on the audience voting for you."

"And your point is?"

"Bernard, you know you're one of my dearest friends, but you're a despicable human being. No one's going to vote for you, unless it's the award for being the most unfavourable bastard."

"I disagree." Bernard returned coolly, before slowly opening the drawer of his desk. "I've been doing some reading on the subject. Thank you, by the way, for leaving your gossip shit-rags on the stairs, where I promptly slipped on them and nearly cracked my head open." He removed several loudly coloured, glossy magazines and dropped them on the desk, before leaning back in his chair and continuing with a casual, know-it-all air. "The majority of these "reality" TV shows focus on introducing the most contrast between the contestants, and one of the key goals is sympathy. The sympathy vote, or the underdog vote, tends to be the decider, although one does have to factor in media portrayal and public opinion as the show continues. Bearing in mind we are a small, independent book shop competing with Goliath, a literal giant, we already have grounding in sympathy. Factor in Manny's pathetic yet I'm sure somehow adorable serf nature, my nature as the disenchanted Romantic, and your being the caring friend who spends all her time here because she herself was pushed out of business... My dear Fran, we can't lose."

Fran looked at Bernard for a long while, before shaking her head.

"That is the biggest load of bollocks I have ever heard."


	3. Chapter 3

There was a brief flash of static, before an empty chair came into view.

"Is that it?" Bernard mumbled, before checking what was noted on the diagram as the display screen, and saw that the "recording" light was on. He was filming the chair behind the kitchen table. "Oh... well that wasn't difficult at all." Pleasantly surprised, he sat in the chair, glass of wine in one hand, bottle in the other, staring at the camera.

"Right. Um... hello." He took a sip from his wine, relaxing a little in the chair. "So. Manny's gone to bed, Fran's gone back to her flat, not that she's any fun sober anyway. Filming for this programme is apparently starting tomorrow, and they're both of them running around like children in a puppy factory. I was really just checking this thing worked. I don't know what to say. All this crap is really very strange to me..." He took another drink from his glass, casting a quick look over his shoulder, in case anyone walked in.

"I can't really believe I'm doing this. I only signed up for the money. Which, to be honest, we're in need of. I mean, when did book shops start having coffee bars in them? I wasn't aware reading was that exhausting that you needed to refuel before you could go up to the third floor. And Manny says they sell comic books too. Comic books! I ask you. And most of them are Japanese. It's bizarre." He sighed, running his hand through his hair, before checking his watch. "No doubt the bumbling bearded buffoon and Miss sell-out will be parading around the shop at some despicably early hour of the morning, so I guess I should call it a night. Right." He stood up, and fumbled with the camera for a bit, before successfully turning it off, and returning it to the drawer in his desk. He shot a brief glance around the silent shop, the dust highlighted by a harsh streetlight glow from outside. "Poetry." He mumbled to himself as he turned back to go upstairs. "That'll get the dumb buggers sympathetic."

The next morning, Bernard stumbled into the shop, rubbing sleep from his eyes before gazing blearily at the sight in front of him. The scent of furniture polish was heavy in the air, as brightly coloured, pristine displays sat beaming on the tables.

"Oh Christ." Bernard muttered, before leaping out of his skin as Manny appeared behind him.

"Good morning, Bernard." Manny smiled, as Bernard weakly levered himself into his chair, trying to recover. Eventually, as Manny busied himself around the shop, Bernard managed to focus on him. He was wearing his black pinstripe suit. Bernard shook his head.

"Manny, why in god's name are you wearing that suit?"

"Well..." Manny flustered, his eyes quickly flickering around the room. "I just... wanted to wear it. I can, can't I?"  
"No." Bernard snarled, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette. "If you wear it, you'll only have to wash it later, and I'd hate for the viewing public to see what you look like waiting for your clothes to dry." Bernard shot him a savage grin as he held his lighter up to his lips. "That is what this is all in aid of, isn't it? Trying to look good for the cameras?"

"No, I... umm..." Manny sighed, dejectedly.

"I thought so. Go on, go and get changed into your usual, pitiful attire."

"But Bernard..."

"Ah!" Bernard held up his hand. "The statement was that we were to continue as normal. We're supposed to be doing exactly what we'd normally do. Come on, you don't see me behaving any differently to normal, do you?"

"A chance would be a fine thing." Manny mumbled under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Uh... nothing... you're right, I'll go get changed." Manny left, quickly, under Bernard's scrutinising glare. Bernard shook his head, puffing on his cigarette.

"Bloody ridiculous." He muttered, to himself. "How desperate do you have to be to get all dressed up just because you're on TV?"

At that moment, Fran entered, wearing a silky black dress, which slit up the left side to reveal her leg, a fact she exploited as she attempted to slink sexily into the shop.

"Hello... Bernard." She gave a broad smile, and tried to finish with a pout, but didn't quite pull it off. Bernard looked at her as if she were an alien being. "How are things today, in this shop that I hold so dear to my heart?"

"Mad." Bernard shook his head. "You're both stark, raving mad..." He scratched his chin, before picking up a book and beginning to read. Fran continued her limping slink towards the desk, before attempting to sit daintily in the chair. Bernard was seemingly oblivious to Fran's shambolic attempt at grace, and so allowed her to compose herself, one bare leg crossed across the other, before glancing over at her and commenting "Oh, I see that rash cleared up nicely. Hope it didn't spread anywhere else."

"Bernard!" Fran barked, dropping all pretence of grace, glancing around awkwardly.

"Go home, get changed into something normal." Bernard said, without looking up from his book.

"But I..."

"No." Bernard glanced up at her, sternly, before returning to the page. "Go home, and come back when you don't look like you just failed the audition for a glamorous assistant on a game show."

Fran scowled at him, before standing and storming out. Bernard watched her leave quite calmly, before addressing the room in general. "I don't know if you're recording all this yet. I just want to make it clear that it isn't fun to be the only sane person around here." And with that, he returned to his book, barely moving as customers came and went. Except, of course, to find a corkscrew and serve himself some liquid breakfast.

It was about lunchtime before Fran returned, wearing her more normal blouse, trousers and scarves. She shot Bernard an angry glare before taking out a pack of cigarettes and lighting up.

"Did I miss anything interesting?"

"Yes, a man from Hollywood came and said he'd sign you on a billion dollar contract if you never get your legs out like that again." Bernard raised an eyebrow, with such a level of sarcasm as would fell a small elephant. "Have you no sense of decency?"

"Ooh." Fran gave a wicked smile. "Bernard Black, I never realised you were such a prude!"

"I am not a prude." Bernard sniffed dismissively. "I just think it's despicable that women throughout your family have been fighting for generations to prove that your gender deserves equal respect to men, and then you go around debasing yourself for total strangers in the aid of what? Fame? Popularity?" He gave her a level look, over the top of his wine glass, and sighed with disappointment. "I'd think you were above that, Fran." Bernard sat back, a slightly smug smile on his face at Fran's humble look, before being interrupted as Manny walked through the shop, a guitar hanging from a strap around his neck.

"Oh Christ, not this again." Bernard mumbled, under gentle twangs as Manny played the guitar, a happy smile on his face. With growing dread, Bernard watched as Manny cleared his throat and began to sing.

"Who will buy my books today? Lots of authors on display..."

"MANNY!" Bernard barked, glaring at him. Manny leapt around, looking like a startled deer.

Their eyes locked.

Bernard shook his head slowly.

Manny sighed, taking off the guitar and returning to his broom.

"You can play your damned music contraption after you've done your chores."

Manny muttered something under his breath, but Bernard just took another sip of wine.

"Anyway." Fran continued, smiling and leaning on Bernard's desk as she smoked. "You're very astute, considering I didn't bring your... lunch... with me." Her eyes flickered, lingering on Bernard's wine glass."

"Ah yes, how is that train wreck coming along?" Bernard smiled, taking a particularly loving sip from his wine. Fran simply turned her head smiling.

"It's great. I've never felt better." She smiled, seemingly genuine. "It's a turnaround in my life."

"Ah..." Bernard sighed, reclining in his chair, running a hand through his shaggy hair. "What is this which we call life? A stream of wonder, and of strife." Fran stared at him blankly. He gave an indulgent smile. "I'm writing poetry."

Fran made an odd noise that was somewhere between a cough and a snort, her eyes gleaming at Bernard.

"Oh, what?"

"You?" She laughed. "Writing poems? Oh god, it'd be awful."

"I'll have you know, I'm a sensitive, poetic Romantic, who..."

"The Romantics were people like Shelley and Byron and Coleridge, not people like you!"  
"You mean, people who drank excessively, were reclusive from society, were widely read and had substance abuse problems?" He gave a triumphant smile, brandishing a notebook at Fran's face. "If Coleridge could write an epic ballad in an opium fit, I can at least write an ode on a pack and a half of Richmond superkings." He nodded, before drinking from his glass again, and flipping open his notebook, scribbling something down.

"What is this, which we call life? A stream of wonder, and of strife. Amidst a... gleaming lake of midnight blue... my empty heart will yearn... for you..." Bernard finished, emotion cracking his voice, before hastily excusing himself and making for the stairs. Fran looked around at Manny, who was showing an old woman the Dickens section. Looking a little worried, she followed Bernard. She found him standing in the corridor, leaning against the wall, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he puffed on a cigarette.

"Bernard, what..."

"Shh!" He held up a finger, gesturing for her to come further down the corridor.

"Bernard, that poem..." Fran's brow creased with concern, then confusion as she saw his pleased grin.

"Inspired, isn't it?" He whispered, eyes gleaming. "If I can keep up this tragic poet malarkey, I'll have them eating out of my hand!"

"What..."

"The sympathy vote! Half a million pounds, as good as ours." He took another puff on his cigarette. "Easy as pie."

"You're a sick man, Bernard Black." Fran shook her head, walking back down the stairs. "You deserve bad things."

"You aren't going to blow my cover, are you?"

"Or what?" Fran glowered at him.

"Or I might just have to update my video diary with some old photos. 1994 was a very good year, wasn't it?" Bernard smiled savagely, staring at Fran as she flinched, recalling what had euphemistically been dubbed "the year of the MacFugly".

"Fine." Fran growled quietly. "I shan't say anything. But you'll get your comeuppance, sooner or later. And I'll be there- sober! Taking pictures as you stoop into drunken shame." She turned and left. Bernard scowled, before calling after her.

"Only if it happens before next Tuesday!"


	4. Chapter 4

Evening drew in, not that it made much difference to the dingy little shop. Bernard sat at his desk, holding a glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other, resolutely not looking at Fran. Fran, for her part, was resolutely not looking at Bernard as she sat curled on the leather sofa, talking to her video diary. Manny was tidying and reorganising the books, as Bernard had decided they should now be organised by colour, rather than subject. Silently, Manny cursed himself for complaining he had nothing to do.

"Well. Here's to day one." Fran smiled into her camera, watching her image in the display screen whilst trying to appear natural. "I guess some people might find it a bit incredible, but really, it's bizarre how stuff happens around here. It can be silent as the grave or complete bedlam! I'm just making a little diary entry for the day before the tapes get picked up. Um... I really don't know what I'm supposed to say..."

"Say how much you'd love a glass or three of wine." Bernard muttered, barely looking up from the page. "Admit it, you treacherous hag."

"Bernard!" Fran tutted, before turning back to the camera. "The emotionally unstable leprechaun over there is alluding to the fact that I am currently trying to cut back on the amount I drink. Healthy living, you know." She gave a nervous smile. "So far, it's going pretty well, and I must admit I feel great."

"Maybe Bernard should try it." Manny muttered into n edition of "Sense and Sensibility" which was such an aged beige colour that he was having trouble fitting it into the visible spectrum. "Give him a grain of basic human compassion."

"Bite your tongue, you hairy, trolloping turncoat!" Bernard replied, throwing his book at Manny, who sidestepped quickly into the alcove. Fran rolled her eyes and smiled once more at the camera.

"I swear, sometimes I'm the only person around her with an ounce of maturity." She clicked the "stop" button and turned off the camera, before standing and laying a heavy hand on Bernard's arm, stopping him from firing more projectiles at the cowering Manny. Bernard shot her a reproachful glare, straightened himself up, and took a resolute swig from his wine glass, never taking his eyes off her. She merely shook her head, a superior smile on her lips.

"What? Oh, don't grin at me like that." Bernard growled, annoyed that he couldn't break her. "You'll fall. You will. You'll be back here in the gutter with me and I shall laugh. Ha." He took another sip of his wine and smiled in the most patronising way he could muster. "Mmm."

"You're a child. A big, hairy, emotionally crippled child." Fran shook her head, putting her camera in the handbag she had left by the sofa, and heading to the door. "I'm going home, to make myself a nice, balanced dinner. I'm loving this health stuff."

"Well good for you." Manny smiled, following Fran towards the door. "I think it's brilliant."

"Thank you, Manny." Fran grinned, grateful for the acknowledgment. "I'm drinking less, I'm teaching myself to cook proper food and I've resolved to start walking more."

"You're a one-woman health hurricane!" Manny smiled, ignoring Bernard's grumbling about how she'd "let herself go". "You know Fran, I'm... I'm really proud of you."

Fran flushed a little, before giving him an awkward hug. "Thanks... It's nice to know someone appreciates what I'm doing." She turned to leave, just as Fiona Lesters, still with clipboard and tracksuit, came in through the door.

"Oh. Hello. Fran, isn't it?" Fiona smiled. "Great to catch you all here. I've come to pick up the diary tapes."

"Oh, yes." Fran smiled, and began rummaging in her bag, trying to find the camera. Manny took out a tape from his pocket, and handed it over with a smile. Bernard began half-heartedly lifting pieces of paper from the desk, without really moving. Manny rolled his eyes and grabbed Bernard's tape from the top of the ledger, directly in front of Bernard's gaze.

"So... how's the show doing?" Bernard lit up a cigarette, taking a long drag.

"It's a little early to tell for sure, but the ratings seem pretty good." Fiona nodded, smiling as Manny and Fran handed over the tapes. "People are really interested. I know I shouldn't say too much, but it seems the public reception is in your favour. People are tuning in for the S and M lingerie shop in Covent Garden, but are staying on to watch you guys. Keep it up. I'll see you tomorrow." She gave another curt smile and left.

"I hate the way these television types keep appearing and disappearing like that." Bernard muttered through a mouthful of smoke. "It's all very ominous."

On TV sets across the nation, the tall, toned, sparklingly perfect presenters were show, perched on stylish blue sofas as they chatted with guests about the profiles of their subjects, underneath the neon banner reading "Working Hours".

"Well, Jenny's a flirt, but she's crafty, you know?" An African American stereotype of a woman reclined on the sofa, her voluminous jewellery glittering under the lights. Her very presence would have been racist, if she hadn't been embarrassingly white. "I mean, that sister has got it all goin' on." She snapped her fingers, attracting a giggle from the suit wearing middle-class stand up comic sat next to her. The Presenters, both of them covered in more blusher and hairspray than most biologists would deem survivable, were used to dealing with laughable guests, but this woman was pushing ridiculous.

"Ok, well, news just in!" Said the female presenter, known to most of the viewing public as "the redhead off the telly" but known to her friends as Sandra. "We have the diary tapes from Black Books."

"Oh, is that the book shop in Bloomsbury?" The comedian perked up. "God, I've never seen so many weirdoes in such a small space!"

"Man, that Irish dude needs to take a pep pill, you know?" The ridiculous woman was talking again, as loudly as ever. "Just being near him could be hazardous to your health."

"Oh I don't know." Sandra smiled. "Dirk, what do you think?"

Dirk, the male producer, flashed a smile at the camera.

"Well, he seems surly, but I bet it's just a front. It's really too soon to judge though, and after all, that is the point of this show. We need to get to know them."

"Well now's your chance." Sandra smiled at the camera, trying to act casual as the producer yelled through her earpiece. "We can go now to video diary entries, and my, oh my will they be interesting."

The empty kitchen cut onto the screen, as Bernard's video entry began to play in several million homes around the nation.

"_I only signed up for the money. Which, to be honest, we're in need of. I mean, when did book shops start having coffee bars in them? I wasn't aware reading was that exhausting that you needed to refuel before you could go up to the third floor. And Manny says they sell comic books too. Comic books! I ask you..."_

It was followed by Fran's short entry about her health kick, and then the cameras cut back to the presenters and their guests.

"So." Dirk gave another dazzling smile. "What do we have to say about that?"

"I think Bernard's really very sorry for himself." The comic began, leaning forward. "He, and his shop... it's all a bit old-fashioned, isn't it? It's kind of like going back in time."

"I agree." Dirk nodded. "I get this real sense from him that the world's passed him by."

"But he jus' sits there all day pourin' poison into his blood, blud." The ridiculous woman cut in, shaking her head. "Man, he's holding them other two back. I mean, Fran is trying to better herself, and all he be doing is talkin' her down."

"Now, I agree with that." Sandra crossed her legs, pulling down the hem of her skirt. "I mean, she's clearly trying to get healthy, and I say more power to her."

"Yeah mate!" The ridiculous guest continued to rave. "She ain't just doing it for her, it's like she doing it for us girls everywhere, you dig?"

"It is a shame to see a promising young woman like that wasting away in such a grotty little place." The comedian nodded.

"Oh, we have one more video!" Dirk cut in, suppressing a wince as the producer barked more instructions in his ear. "Turns out, the "hidden hippy" of Black Books, that interesting figure of Manny Bianco provided a much lengthier diary entry than his co-workers, and what an entry it is." The cameras cut again, this time to the cluttered yet clean den that viewers could presume was Manny's room.

Manny's face was deep in concentration as he fumbled with the camera, before smiling and sitting back a little.

"_Um... Right. Hi, I'm Manny, and this is my video diary." His voice was its usual, breezy, nervous tone. "It's..." He checked his watch. "It's seven a.m on the first day of filming, and I thought I'd let you in on my morning. Bernard doesn't usually get up 'til ten... well, eleven, if I'm being honest. And that's a good morning. So I have three or four hours of me time in the morning, which really help me... well, help me keep my sanity. So, let's get on with the morning, shall we?" Manny h=gave a nervy smile, and there was a brief wobble as the camera was picked up, and began to travel across the room. It focused on a photo in a cheap but stylish frame on the windowsill. Manny's voice could be heard, commentating from off screen._

"_This is Roweena. Well, it's not her, obviously, it's only a picture. But it's a picture of Roweena. She's... well, she's sort of my girlfriend although we're... we're nothing serious." He was gushing awkwardly, clearing his throat. "Bernard says he's amazed she's sane and in full possession of her senses, to be seen with a big hairy lug like me. Sometimes, I think he's probably right." Manny chuckled, beginning to move out of his bedroom and downstairs. "Of course, I'm more amazed that she puts up with me having to look after the drunken lout. I mean, don't get me wrong, he's been a good friend to me... well, he's been a friend to me. But it's amazing that she doesn't want me away from the shop more. I'm actually quite glad she doesn't ask, because she'd no doubt start on Bernard for picking on me, and I'm not good with confrontation."_

_He had made it to the kitchen, and the camera now swung from one squalid wall to the other._

"_I didn't have a chance to clean up last night, so it's a bit of a mess. Still, nothing a bit of TLC won't fix." Manny's bright optimism was evident in his voice. "Well..." He faltered, spinning the camera around quickly as something rustled in an old take-away packet. "Maybe a lot. I'm actually going to sign off here, because I'm just going to be cleaning and it won't be very interesting. If I get time between cleaning and cooking Bernard breakfast, I'll maybe do another little update. If not, then... um... see you next time." He flashed another nervy smile, eyes flickering as something off-screen caught his gaze. "Oh Christ, not them again..." He mumbled as the camera turned off._

There was a silent pause in the studio for a moment as the two feeds matched up. Sandra realised the camera was on her.

"Aww, isn't he so sweet?" She cooed, giggling.

"He's a puppy in human form." The comedian chuckled, smiling. "Which of course makes it all the worse that Bernard treats him so badly, as we were saying earlier."

"Yeah, dawg." The obnoxious guest barked again. "If you ask me, no one deserves that kinda shizz, but a man like Manny too sweet to be in such a bad place, you dig?"

Dirk nodded, crossing his legs grandly.

"But it's good to know he has someone special in his life."

"Oh Roweena must be a very lucky woman." Sandra sighed. "He certainly seems the tender boyfriend."

"Oh, I'm sorry Sandra," Dirk cut in, checking his watch as the producer growled into his ear. "But I've just been told it's time for a break." He turned to look down the camera and smiled broadly. "Join us when we come back and we'll be talking more about Bernard and Manny, looking at a dietician's preliminary charts for Fran, and following up on that _interesting_ customer in the changing rooms at "Sugar and Spice" the Covent Garden lingerie shop."

Screens across the nation cut to adverts.

Sitting in her modest yet cheery little flat. Roweena blushed heavily, and wondered exactly what the precedent was for these sorts of situations. She didn't have long to think though, as every female friend she had simultaneously tried to contact her in every form possible, dying to know if her fuzzy puppy of a man was really that sweet.

Meanwhile, a little further down the road, Fran slumbered and Manny cleaned, unaware that their lives were being changed for them. Bernard's ears were burning, but that was because he'd fallen asleep face-down in the ash-tray.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to everyone for the reviews! I'd actually given up on this a little bit. I work on the simple rule, if a story gets reviews, I write more. So pleeeaase review if you want to see more, otherwise I just won't bother! Right, onward!

*********************

Fran bit her lip as she adjusted the camera, looking at it carefully as she reclined back in her chair.

"Ok..." She mumbled, smoothing down her shirt. "So, video diary, here you are in my flat. It's not very big, but it's all I need." She gave a vague gesture to the surrounding room, but kept her eyes trained on the camera. There was a brief, awkward pause as she stared into the camera, biting her lip again, before she slumped forward, leaning her elbows on her knees. She pressed her fingers into her eyes, trying to regain control of herself, before sitting up again. She smiled, but it wasn't sincere.

"Um... well, first off, welcome to day five of "Working Hours", I guess. I saw some magazines on the way home from the shop. They said the show was a smash hit so... so that's nice. They said some things about us which, again, was nice... felt like a bit of a celebrity." She gave another sheepish grin, before letting her gaze fall to the floor. "I nearly slipped today. I mean, on the drinking thing. Not... you know..." She mimed someone slipping over with wacky, over the top hand gestures, but lost conviction for the performance as it went on, flashing a nervy smile to the camera.

"It doesn't help that Bernard's being so... Bernard. But this is nice, this helps. I mean, it's good to have someone to talk to. I know I could talk to Manny but he has problems of his own. He's in love, he's happy. I'm not going to drag him down with all my problems."

She shifted in her seat, pulling one leg up so she was almost sat cross-legged in the chair, but with her right leg hanging down to the floor. She kept her hands wrapped around her knee, making her shoulders hunch over. She suddenly looked very sad.

"So, yes. I was in the shop today, and this guy came in to buy some particularly boring book, and he was talking with Bernard about wine. And he asked me if I drank at all, maybe I would like to go to this wine-tasting chateau and I almost said yes. Can you imagine? He was hideous!" Her eyes shone briefly as she gave an incredulous smile. "I was willing to go to a chateau with this horrible little man just so I could get to some wine! It's..." She trailed off, her gaze falling to the floor again.

"I've been cutting down on smoking, though, that's going quite well. And the healthy food is getting better; it's actually starting to have a taste now. I made myself a proper, homemade vegetable stew last night! Well... I bought the stock, but the rest I did all myself. I can't let this fail. It's too important." She sniffed a little and dabbed at her eyes, looking down at the tears that had started to well in her eyes. "Oh, dear..." she gave a sniffly, apologetic smile to the camera. "I think I'm going to have to end this entry here. But... this has been good, I definitely feel a bit better. I'll talk more soon. Bye." She whispered the last part as she reached forward and turned off the camera.

The screen turned to black, and faded back in on the brightly lit studio. There was a heavy pause, as both presenters reeled slightly from the impact... or at least, pretended to (it was hard to tell).

"Wow." Sandra's head of gloriously red hair shone under the studio lights as she sat back in her chair and crossed her legs, looking genuinely astounded. "What an entry."

"What a woman!" Dirk, her sharply suited, professionally groomed male counterpart agreed. "I mean, power to her for all this healthy living, but..."

The guest panellists, this time a flamboyantly homosexual actor and a square, balding man with a lot of beard who was apparently a behavioural psychologist (they were apparently booking guests from the "Weber's Stereotypes 2009 list") nodded, apparently deep in thought.

"But you have to wonder why, don't you?" The flamboyant actor leant forward flamboyantly, raised a flamboyant hand to his mouth and asked, in a flamboyant stage whisper. Dirk smiled in acknowledgement and shifted in his seat, feeling somewhat emasculated.

"Why what?" Sandra raised an eyebrow.

"Well, why she's doing all of this. I mean, she says it's for healthy living, but it all seems a bit sudden, doesn't it?"

"Indeed." The psychologist chimed in, sitting perfectly straight in his chair. "There are many reasons a person would take on a sudden overhaul in lifestyle, perhaps due to some shocking news, a personal revelation, or maybe simply on more physical matters."

"Physical...?"  
"Oh my God!" The actor squawked. "Maybe she's..." He looked around, leaning in towards Sandra and Dirk. "Can I say it, or would I get sued or something?"

"Well, as long as you make sure to point out you don't know whether something's true or not, I guess you could say whatever it is." Sandra smiled cautiously, hoping to God he didn't say anything stupid. Dirk, meanwhile, was mentally rewriting his CV, wondering if there was any way he could stress the fact he was a classically trained actor who spent four years at RADA, and if that would stop him from getting any more of these ridiculous presenting jobs.

"Well..." The flamboyant actor leaned in further, smiling excitedly. However, at that moment the disembodied voice of the Producer blared through the earpieces of Sandra and Dirk, and they had to cut to an advert break. But that was all the viewing public needed to start making assumptions of their own.

The next day, Manny had barely been up five minutes, before the phone rang. He blushed heavily as he heard Roweena's voice on the other end.

"Oh... um... hi." He gushed, as he carried the phone with him, towards the door. "No, I was just about to open shop... Ah, well... well it was true." He blushed, as Roweena continued talking to him. The cameras wouldn't pick up the other side of the conversation, but it wasn't hard to guess what they were talking about. "Tonight? Sure... No, Bernard won't mind... well then I won't tell him. I'll just wait for him to pass out about seven o'clock, and then he won't wake up 'til gone one... yeah." He chuckled, a genuine, love-struck smile gracing his bearded cheeks. "Alright. Well I have to open shop now... I know... I will... alright." He gave a sheepish, school-girl giggle. "You too... yeah... yeah... bye." He put the phone down, almost immediately followed by a blurted "I love you". He cursed himself for ending another phone call in entirely the way he didn't want to, sighed, and picked up the broom. Why couldn't he say it to her? He could say it about her, he knew he felt that way, but... he just froze up. Sighing, he resolutely began sweeping the floor, and picked up the mail. There were the usual bills, but there was another one, addressed to him.

He tried to tear open the envelope carefully, slipping out the letter that was inside. It was written in big, looping pink letters, every "I" dotted with a heart. Manny took a little while to decipher it, but blushed furiously when he did. At that moment, however, Fran burst into the shop, grinning broadly.

"Manny!" She squeaked, clutching a letter in a brown envelope. "Guess what? "Home and Health" magazine has asked me to submit some healthy food recipes for busy, working women! If I can put my own spin on some classic recipes, make them quick, simple and easy, I could be a regular contributor!"

"Oh, wow!" Manny smiled. "That's great. More reason to cook healthy, hm?"

"I know!" She grinned, her eyes falling on the letter in his hands. "What's that?"

"Oh it's..." he flustered. "Nothing."

"Come on!" Fran laughed, trying to take it from him. "I won't laugh, I promise."

"No, really, it's..." He started to protest, but yelped as Fran managed to snatch the letter away. She looked down at the paper, brow furrowed in confusion, before slow realisation dawned on her.

"Oh god..." She began to chuckle. "Manny Bianco, you have received your first piece of fan-mail! Manny's got a fan club!" She squealed, before chanting it over and over again as Manny desperately tried to shush her. There was an ominous rattling of the curtains, before Bernard stumbled through them, his face contorted in contempt to the point that it greatly resembled the underbelly of a thundercloud in the moments leading up to a massive storm.

"What..." He spat, glowering at the room in general, "is Miss Sell-out blathering about now?"

Manny looked imploringly at Fran, silently begging her not to say anything. She looked at him, and bit her lip.

"Nothing." She smiled. "Wasn't important. Sorry for waking you."

"Oh." Bernard tutted, slipping into his chair. "Fair enough. After all, why should I be surprised? It's not like you normally show any consideration to the feeling of others."

"I... what?" Fran was flummoxed by this sudden brusqueness. Bernard had been in a mood with her for days, ever since the show started, but he'd never been this churlish. Bernard merely glared at her.

"Oh, don't give me that."

"Bernard, you're not still complaining that I've given up drink, are you?" Fran bristled. She really wasn't in the mood to put up with Bernard's childish possessiveness. "You're so immature; you know that, don't you?"

"I am not immature, I'm poetic." He thumped his fist against the table to emphasise his point.

"Oh for heaven's sake..." Fran sighed. This again. He was trying to be a tortured, Romantic soul and he wanted someone to argue with. Well she wouldn't rise to the bait. "Fine. If that's how you're going to be, I'll come back later. After you've had your... breakfast."

"Don't use that tone with me." Bernard muttered as he took out a packet of cigarettes and started to light up. "I'm happy. I'm being the same as I ever was. I'm not lying to those nearest and dearest."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you know." Bernard shot her a glare, slamming his lighter back down on the desk. Fran raised an eyebrow, but was trying to suppress the various emotions that were currently presenting themselves. He was being horrible, more so than usual, but she couldn't give him the pleasure of seeing her cry. Nor could she hit him, throw things at him, scream at him, or crawl under the table and wait for him to go away.

"I honestly don't."

Bernard reclined in his chair, never taking his eyes off hers, but slipped his hand into the desk and pulled out a glossy, gossipy magazine, bearing a picture of some heavily airbrushed actress. In the middle of the page, underneath the feature headline, was a box, asking in bold pink letters what the "experts" thought Fran's reasons were for a sudden change in diet, and informing readers that they could find out inside. Fran looked slowly from the magazine to Bernard, and back again.

"So. What is it, then?" Bernard asked, coolly. "We've accepted that you're just on some health fad and that it'll pass as soon as someone waves a bottle of Londis Red under your nose. But apparently, according to Doctor Trashy Magazine, a woman of your age would be unlikely to tackle such a sudden change in so many areas at once." Fran was glaring at him, trying hard to stay on top of all the contrasting pieces of advice her brain was screaming at her. Bernard returned her gaze with the a veiled, menacing scowl; the kind a banker gives when he knows you've embellished your credit history. There was a long, tense silence.

"What is it?"

Without thinking, Fran grabbed a book and threw it at him, eyes narrowed and vision hastily blurring with tears.

"I don't have to explain myself to you! Why the hell would I? You don't understand anyone's pain but your own. Did it ever occur to you that maybe if you weren't such an uncaring bastard I would have..." She trailed off, her voice unsteadily layered with emotion, and stormed out of the shop.

Bernard and Manny watched her leave, shocked by the sudden outburst. Manny considered going after her, but turned back to look at Bernard. For a moment he could almost see regret behind the wall of smoke now accumulating from Bernard's cigarette, but it was quickly gone, as Bernard swept through the curtains into the kitchen, leaving Manny and his fan-mail alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks to everyone for the feedback! I'm going to make this super-long chapter the last of this story, but as soon as I get another idea, you guys will be the first to know!! Enjoy.

Manny stretched as he wandered into the shop, stopping to gaze pitifully at Bernard, who was swimming in and out of consciousness as he lay slumped over his desk. After Fran had stormed out of the shop, Bernard had fumbled with a cigarette before throwing the entire box across the room in frustration and tearing the cork from a bottle of wine. He had drunk until the liquid seemed to alter his physical state; his eyes pooling, soft and red, his muscles loosing what little tone they had, he took on the appearance of a doe-eyed water snake that had lost all interest in its' career and let itself go. Now he looked up at Manny with an empty gaze that feebly attempted to be threatening, but lacked all spirit.

"You going out then?" Bernard mumbled, not lifting his head from the ledger.

"Yeah, got a date with Roweena." Manny smiled, sheepishly as he straightened his shirt cuffs. "Are you going to be ok?"

"I'll be fine." Bernard mumbled in a hoarse croak, burying his face in the ledger.

"What time is it?"

"That one." Bernard mumbled, sticking his arm into the air. "On the watch. The same as it was yesterday... and this morning."

"Seven." Manny examined Bernard's watch. "I have to go. Are you sure you'll be ok?"

"Yes, I'll be fine." Bernard prized himself from the book, sitting up irritably. Manny had never quite figured out how someone could perform such an action as sitting up with such an air of irritability, but if anyone could manage to do so, it would be Bernard. "You're not my mother. Begone with you."

Bernard slumped in his chair, glaring at Manny's retreating form. He took a bottle of wine from his drawer, and found a glass. He tried to wipe some of the dust off with his thumb, but only succeeded in smearing it more. Grimacing, he shrugged and poured himself out some wine, glaring at the offensive, glossy article from a TV magazine he had hidden from Manny.

There, in bold black print, beneath a picture of himself and Fran, were the words "Reality TV's couples to watch!" Bernard had nearly vomited when he first saw it, but that may have been the excessive amounts of alcohol and near constant hangover. He glared down at the fuzzy picture for another thirty silent seconds, before belligerently sweeping stacks of paper from his desk, finding his video camera lying forgotten underneath. He set it up and sat back, his features contorted into a scowl. He knew that, across the nation, thousands would watch his flustered bluffing as he sat in his darkened grotto, alone.

"Right... now... so, here's the thing. See, I know you all saw Fran yell at me, and you probably think she was right. And you all know I'm not a poet; don't... don't indulge me. But see, you don't have the... the facts. And I-I-I think... that I was in the right. So there." He sat back, and took another sip from his wine, before turning to the camera. "No... that's bollocks. Alright, so... so didn't I have a right to be mad at her? She thinks she's so much better than me- than us..." he caught himself. "She thinks she's so clean and holy, she hasn't even told us why she's going on this sudden turn... turnaround... no, that's bollocks too... ok, see, here's the thing. The thing is... it's that if she wants to plaster her... ugly mush... all over the TV papers 'cos she's so desperate to find someone..."

"Oh Bernard Black, will you shut up?"

The voice shocked him into sitting upright. He slapped at the off button, looking up with an expression of guilt, which quickly changed to a non-plussed snub.

"I'm sorry, miss, the shop is closed."

"Bernard." Fran stepped into the shop, somewhere between annoyance and embarrassment. "Look, I came here to talk."

"Oh... is there something to talk about? Hmm?" He sat back in his chair, scowling. "Like this, perhaps?" He threw the TV magazine at her, and stalked into the kitchen. Fran watched him leave, unsure how to react. She reached down and picked up the article, reading it with growing indignation.

"Bernard!" Fran cried out, sweeping into the kitchen after him. She caught him trying to sneak upstairs, but she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back to the table. "No, you tell me what you mean by this, Bernard!"

"What I mean?" He repeated, glaring at her. He pulled his arm out of her grip, and glared at her. "Oh, like you don't know."

Fran continued to glare at him. He felt himself starting to cave under the pressure, perhaps because, deep down, he knew his argument had all the structural integrity of a tower made of twiglets and wet tissue paper. But crossed his arms and looked away, resolving to stay strong.

"Tell me, Bernard."

"Well... someone told the magazines that we were a couple. In fact some of them seem to think you're... you're..." he flapped vaguely in Fran's general direction. "You know."

"I don't know, Bernard." Fran spoke with measured determination, glaring at him with such force that would place somewhere between a fire hose and a herd of stampeding elephants. "Tell me."

"They... well..." He blushed a little, still not managing to look at her. "They think that you're having a little visitor."

"What?"

"You know... you're renting out the guest room." He whispered, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

"Bernard..." Fran grabbed him by the ear, still glaring. "Speak English."

"Ahh.." He wriggled in her grip, trying to break free. "Pregnant! Pregnant!" he managed to pull free, and stormed across the kitchen, putting the table between them. He glared at her. "They think you're pregnant and they think it's mine."

"What?" Fran's eyebrows shot up, incredulous. What magazine had he been reading? She sat down, a little shocked that she had been so slandered so heinously without her knowledge.

"Are you?"

"What?"

"Stop saying that. Are you pregnant?"

"No, Bernard..."

"Who's is it? Come on, tell the people!" Bernard gestured wildly around the room, wishing he knew exactly where the cameras were. Perhaps then he wouldn't look quite so bad.

"Bernard." Fran stood again. "I'm. Not. Pregnant."

"Phah." He laughed, but didn't smile. "Bollocks. Absolute bollocks. Why else would you go all..." he pulled a face, repulsed by the very word he was about to utter. "Healthy."

Fran flushed, and started to move towards the door.

"I don't want to talk about it."

His arm shot out, blocking her exit.

"Oh no. No, we're talking about this. And you're telling everyone. Why'd you do it?"

"Bernard, please..." Fran couldn't meet his gaze. She was aware the tables had turned, but she just wanted to get out of there. She felt the heat building in her face, burning at the back of her eyes. Slowly, she looked up into his pale, angry, suspicious face. He hadn't cared about her. He'd leapt to blaming her, resenting her, hating her... and for what?

Bernard continued to watch her, but couldn't have expected her suddenly bursting into tears. He stepped back, awkward, and tried to comfort her.

"Oh, um... here, no, Fran, you... look... look sit down will you?" he steered her back into the chair whilst trying to avoid getting too close to her. "I... look, I didn't mean to..."

"It's not you..." Fran sniffed, in between emotional wails. "It's... it's..." She wailed again, and Bernard shifted uncomfortably.

"Do you... umm... here." He produced a crumpled old tissue from his coat pocket, and held it out to her. She took it with shaking fingers and dabbed at her eyes.

"Oh... I need a drink." She sniffed; her voice heavy and waterlogged.

"But you said you weren't..."

"Get me a drink!" She half-roared, eyes wild and wet, making Bernard leap from his chair and retrieve a bottle, with two glasses. She sniffed gratefully, and gulped down the bitter red liquid, feeling it sooth her synapses, dulling the banshee screech that was coming at her from all directions. Bernard watched her quietly, with large, timid eyes. She took a deep, slow breath, and looked at him. She'd forgotten just how pathetic he could be.

"I'm sorry Bernard. I should have told you." Bernard flapped his hands, mumbling wordlessly, not taking his terrified eyes off her. She sniffed, and looked down at her hands. "You remember my aunty Susan?" He looked at her, blank. "I told you about her. She died a month before the reality show started." He continued to look at her, somehow even blanker. She sighed, and rolled her eyes.

"My Aunty Susan died about two months ago now. She was an amazing woman; I always wanted to be just like her."

"And she was all healthy and bright and lovely?"

"God no, she smoked thirty a day."

"Oh."

"Bernard... I smoked thirty-five a day."

"So?"

"You don't get it. She was told she had cancer at thirty seven. I'm thirty..." she trailed off, her eyes flicking around the room in a quick search for the cameras. "I'm... not that far away from that age. I don't want to end up like her. Going into a hospital once every two months to be poked and prodded and injected... she was completely bald by the time she died, and lived in the hospital for the last year of her life. There was no dignity, no grace, just...." tears began to well at the corners of her eyes as she trailed off into silence. She sniffed and glared at Bernard. "What, no smart remarks? No sarcastic comments?"

Bernard stood, silently, and crossed the kitchen. He turned on the kettle and started moving around mugs and getting out tea bags. Eventually, he turned to look at Fran.

"I'm sorry."

"What?" Fran's head snapped around, almost certain she'd misheard him.

"I told you to stop saying that. I'm sorry." He looked at her, round eyes laced with concern. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have yelled like that."

"You... you mean it?"

"Yes. For one thing, I'd have been far quieter, and for another, thinly veiled hostility is far more effective in those circumstances." His lips twisted into his trademark smirk, his cheeky, dimpled face reminding Fran why she'd stuck with him all these years. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

"I thought you'd laugh."

"I would never..." He began to act indignant, but Fran raised an eyebrow, and he admitted defeat. "Alright, I probably would have, but I would have understood." The kettle boiled, and he poured out two mugs of tea. "And you know, if you'd just cut down instead of going completely cold turkey, you might have spared us all some grief."

"I know." She smiled, awkwardly. "Sorry about that."

Bernard shrugged, handing her tea to her and sitting down.

"I'm sorry I made you tell your deepest secrets to the world at large." He motioned around the room.

"That's ok. I feel... lighter. Relieved." She smiled. "It's a weight off my shoulders." Bernard chuckled, rubbing his thumb absent-mindedly across the handle of his mug. Fran smiled, feeling, for the first time in months, genuinely calm and relieved. And she hadn't had to smoke anything.

"So we're good?"  
Bernard sat back, and thought for a moment. "Yes, we're ok, and so much so that I'm going to ignore your hideous sentence fragment." She chuckled, a silly giggle that welled up from her stomach. They smiled at each other, relishing the renewal of their friendship, sitting happily in the silence.

That was when there was a knock on the door, and Bernard grudgingly dragged himself to his feet and threw open the shop door. He was about to deliver a snappy "Shop's closed", but was bowled over by Felicity Lesters, the blonde, producing comet.

"Bernard, brilliant." She didn't look as happy or upbeat this time. She looked quite resigned as she reached into her bag, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. "Just caught you. Look, the series isn't getting the ratings it should be, so we're cutting it a few episodes short."

"What?" Bernard looked at her, eyebrows raised. "What about the phone vote? The prize money... the things!"

Fiona sighed and rummaged in her bag some more. "Yes, sorry about that. Look, we can pay you your compensation, and, uhh... you can keep the handycams." She smiled, handing over an ornately penned cheque. "Sell them, pawn them, makes no real difference. Someone will be in tomorrow to remove the cameras." She smiled, and left. "Pleasure doing business with you. Give my love to Manny and Fran."

Bernard stood in the empty shop, looking out of the open door. Fran poked her head around the curtain.

"Bernard? What was that?"

"We just got paid £25,000 to not be on TV..."

Bernard groaned, and wiped a fragment of congealed sleep goo from the corner of his eye. Again, in such a time-honoured morning tradition, he scraped himself blearily from his desk and examined the curve of his wine glass. Empty. Not clean. Interesting. Manny couldn't have been there. A vague memory stirred in his mind. What time was it? He dragged his wrist around. Eight? He'd slept 'til eight? He knew he'd been sleeping more than usual lately, but twenty three hours? And why was it still light?

"Morning, Bernard." Fran smiled, pushing back the kitchen curtain and handing him a mug of tea.

"Morning?" He mumbled, looking confused. "There's an Eight o'clock in the morning?"

"Yup." Fran smiled. "Wonderful, isn't it?" She perched on his desk, sipping from her own mug of tea.

"Why aren't I hung-over?"

"We didn't drink last night. Well, you had about three glasses, but other than that..."

"Three? Three glasses?"

"It's not that bizarre, Bernard."

"Right... Where's Manny?"

"I don't know." Fran smiled, wryly. "He hasn't come back yet."

"Oh right, his date. How odd."

Bernard and Fran sat, talking and drinking tea, before eventually Fran resolved to make some breakfast while Bernard went off for a shower. It was an odd situation to be in, having a morning after, while not at all regretting the night before.

At nine o'clock, the busy-body electrical people came to take out the cameras, and Bernard and Fran looked on with a sense of happiness. At that point, Manny ran in, shaken and pale. He stopped dead when he saw Bernard, sat back in his chair, watching the door.

"Little late this morning, aren't we Manny?"

"Bernard... you're awake..."

"I am."

"And he's sober too." Fran smiled.

"Oh... um... great." Manny smiled, awkward.

"So where have you been?"

"Well, Roweena and I went out for our date and we, um... ran into some troubles."

"Oh?" Bernard and Fran raised smug eyebrows simultaneously, not taking their eyes off Manny.

"Yes. Well, it started off just one person asking for an autograph, and then things got a bit... manic."

"Go on."

"I don't want to talk about it." Manny shook his head. "Suffice to say we got separated in the rush and I only just managed to get a ride back from SoHo..." Manny shook his head, his eyes glazed with a haunted, faraway look. For the first time, he noticed the crewmembers. "What's all this?"

"They're taking out the cameras." Fran smiled. "The show got axed."

"We got some compensation money, though." Bernard rummaged in his pockets and found a cigarette, placing it between his lips. "We get to keep the little diary cameras, too." He produced a lighter, and was about to light up, when he cautiously glanced up at Fran, who was looking at him nervously. Bernard cleared his throat, and stood.

"Think I'll go... smoke this outside." He smiled guiltily, and left, coat billowing behind him, leaving Manny wide-eyed and confused.

"What happened? He's all..." Manny gestured, unable to speak. Fran just smiled again, collecting the mugs and breakfast plates from the desk.

"He's not as bad as you'd think, Manny."

"Did... did you two..." Manny gestured, eyes popped so wide they almost fell from his head.

"What?" Fran smiled at him innocently, before gasping in indignation. "Manny! Do you think, even if we did, I'd just blurt it out like that? Honestly, some people have no respect for a person's privacy." She tutted, smiling coyly, slinking out of the kitchen and leaving Manny amid the clattering of the crew members as they returned the shop to normal.


End file.
